


Change

by SamIsNotLegend



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is genderfluid, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, IDk what its really supposed to be, Kid Fic, M/M, Stream of Consciousness, Temporary Character Death, a little bit of angst in the beginning and then its all okay, great parenting, just like the concept of rebirth, lots of magic, no one really dies okay, tbh I have no idea where this came from, yea thats what we'll call it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-23 00:40:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23236258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamIsNotLegend/pseuds/SamIsNotLegend
Summary: So Crowley thought about how wonderful all the recent changes had been, and Aziraphale marveled at their gentle embrace while trying to not over-knead the bread, and they didn’t mention the sudden, uncertain change that had overtaken them in the past hour. Not for awhile, at least.Or,Crowley and Aziraphale kind of become human. But also, they really, really don't.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31





	Change

Crowley noticed immediately, when it happened, and he thinks Aziraphale did too, though neither of them mentioned it for a long time. No out loud, at least.

Just - Crowley wakes up from a short afternoon nap, not even an hour long, and he can feel it in the air. The lightness of change, the sudden _taste_ of air in his lungs. It’s not painful, but it doesn’t feel good either. It’s just different. Just different.

He comes into the kitchen to watch Aziraphale at the counter, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he kneads dough, looking altogether too gentle about it. Aziraphale looks up, and their eyes meet, and they both know.

Crowley walks to stand behind Aziraphale, twining his arms around the angel’s torso, and presses his lips to his cheek. Aziraphale hums, leaning back into him just enough to let Crowley know that he’s welcome, but not enough to disengage from the task at hand.

He continues kneading the dough.

X

It has been 10 years since the world didn’t end, and overall, it’s been a decade of change. They’d learned to move together, to match their strides not just in the brief, blissful moments spent together throughout the centuries, but every day.

They’d moved the most precious of Aziraphale’s books and all of Crowley’s plants into the same house, away from London, and had shocked each other at how well their opposite aesthetics meshed. They had gone to Ikea, and made concessions on furniture and lighting, and stood aghast in their new home, astonished at the beauty of it. Of them.

Aziraphale had taken up baking.

Crowley had begun, tentatively at first and then with vigor, to bully a garden into shape.

Aziraphale listened to, and then enjoyed, _bebop_.

Crowley spent more nights than not creeping ever-closer to Aziraphale on the couch while the angel pretended not to notice while reading aloud from his book, until they were finally pressed together.

And, oh yes, they had gotten married.

It had been such a small thing in the end, but remembering the fact of it - when Aziraphale caught a gold glimpse on his ring finger, or when Crowley couldn’t peel his eyes away from the patterned metal on his own - was a terrible, wonderfully happy thing. Almost as wonderful as looking up to see one another right there. Just - existing, being, by each other’s side.

So Crowley thought about how wonderful all the recent changes had been, and Aziraphale marveled at their gentle embrace while trying to not over-knead the bread, and they didn’t mention the sudden, uncertain change that had overtaken them in the past hour.

X

It crept up on them, sometimes so slowly that Crowley forgot to notice it. But then something would happen, and he would be reminded. Sitting across from Aziraphale one night, Crowley watched as his husband’s face split into a yawn, one hand coming up politely to cover his open mouth. The motion was so fluid, natural-looking that only Crowley could have seen it for what it was. The first yawn from an angel in over 6000 years.

Aziraphale lowered his hand, something like fear tightening the edges of his eyes, and Crowley almost mentioned the change. He didn’t. Instead, he reached to take his husband’s hand, and they led each other away, happily distracted.

They both slept that night, though Aziraphale for barely an hour before he roused himself. Crowley slept through the night, and when he woke he came down stairs still in pajamas.

“I had a dream last night.” He told his husband. That had never happened before. At least, not without a lot of concentrated effort on his part. And the dreaming itself had been so strange, less controlled and more quirky and uncertain.

“A dream?” Aziraphale’s voice was far too flat, but Crowley continued.

“You were there. And the neighbor’s yappy dog - you know, the little one? I think we were on a boat, and there was - a waterslide? It was really weird. Also you were wearing your privateer outfit. You know the one, remember when we met in the 1600s?”

“Oh, yes, I remember.”

They began talking about their respective few years as pirates, privateers, sailors, whatever, when that sort of thing had been in fashion, and mentioned neither the sleeping or dreaming.

Crowley took to examining his face in the mirror, looking for evidence of change. It was the same face he’d had for millenia, and he knew it well. He knew the planes of his skull, the way his skin shaped it, he knew the shape of his mouth when he frowned or smiled, he was even usually aware of how he stacked up against whatever the modern beauty standards were.

Still. Still, for all that he knew his own face, it snuck up on him. He may not have noticed, if it weren’t for the changes occurring on the one face he knew better than his own. His husband’s laugh lines deepened, slowly, so slowly over the next decade. The lines at his eyes became proper crows feet, and his face became even softer, if such a thing were possible.

Crowley kissed them, when he could. Pressing tiny demonic blessings into each wrinkle, and hoping that Aziraphale didn’t notice. He must have though, probably around the same time Crowley detected the heavenly blessings seeping from Aziraphale’s hands into his hair, which was now peppered in gray.

Aziraphale began to reorganize his books. This wasn’t so unusual, except that for the first time ever, there was a clear method to the mess.

“I was hoping to ask dear Anathema to take care of them,” he mentioned to Crowley one afternoon. “I’m sure I can trust her to ensure their safety until we come back.”

_Until we come back_. Crowley’s heart lifted. It wasn’t the first time they had alluded to the change, now, but it was the first time he’d heard it phrased that way.

For all the gray in his hair, for all that they now dreamt, they were not human. They’d be back.

“Not sure about trusting her with the plants though,”Crowley grouched.

“Oh, but we can set aside some money for that.” the angel assured, checking the spine of a particularly ancient book. “Anathema could hire a service, I’m sure.”

“Hm.”

They began to plan for it, the end to the change. There was Crowley’s Bentley to take care of, and Aziraphale still had his bookshop in London to keep. The will ended up a bit funky, and the lawyer clearly thought they were a part of some strange cult (which really wasn’t too far off the mark, Crowley believed) but in the end it was all taken care of, all prepared for.

Anathema, now in her fifties but with at least another 50 or more still ahead of her, (what with all the blessings, and the adoration of one ex-antichrist to consider) would make sure everything went smoothly and would browbeat anyone who tried anything funny with the admittedly priceless collections Crowley and Aziraphale had built over their shared millenia.

35 years after the second beginning, Aziraphale woke and felt ready. Crowley still slept, cuddled to his chest, and Aziraphale woke the demon with a press of lips to his forehead.

Crowley blinked snake eyes open, meeting his angel’s gaze. “Today?” He asked.

“Tonight, dearest. I believe it’s tonight.”

Crowley began to cry. “I’m going to miss you. So much.”

Aziraphale held him close and breathed him in. “It’s going to be okay,” He said, though he was fighting his own battle against the pressure in his eyes. “It’s going to be okay.”

They got out of bed, and got ready for the day. Crowley snapped his fingers and his puffy eyes were back to normal, and Azirapahle blinked and tea was made, and they relaxed, just a little.

They went into town, with no plans other than to just exist, side-by-side, as much as they could. Aziraphale passed blessings to every person they met, until the sky was uncharacteristically blue and warm for the time of year, and the whole town was glowing warm with contentment. Crowley pretended that he didn’t like the warm, blissed-out feeling radiating from the humans, and Aziraphale pretended to be offended when Crowley made the town arcade’s games go haywire as they passed, giving all the local children far too many tickets to buy prizes with. With any luck, none of the adults would notice until the tourist season began in a few months.

They bought lunch at the local bakery, and ate as they walked, chatting about nothing, hands clasped tight. They walked until they’d seen the whole town, and then they wandered to the beach and sat, resting against one another.

“It’s going to be okay.” Aziraphale said again, when the sun began to dip towards the horizon.

Crowley was silent for several minutes, and Azirapahle waited, patient.

“I know, angel.” He said, quietly. “I’m just… scared, a little.”

“Change is scary.” Aziraphale agreed.

“Mm, yeah. And this might be the biggest change of our lives so far.”

Aziraphale thought about Crowley’s fall from heaven, when time was a meaningless thing, and remembered his own forceful leap during Armageddon, and decided that Crowley was still probably right. “Do you know what’s going to happen?” He asked.

Crowley shook his head. “No. You?”

“No, me neither. But I think - I know we’re going to be alright.”

“Yeah. I know that too. I… I love you, Aziraphale.”

“I love you too, Crowley.”

They rested against each other, two men-shaped beings, much, much older than they both looked, watching as the sun slipped behind the horizon.

“Let’s go to bed.” Aziraphale whispered, and Crowley nodded. They stood, and the walk home was long, perhaps a bit drawn out, but time was being kind to them, now that it had almost run out.

Once home, they fell against each other, a mere 35 years not nearly enough to wipe away the newness of one another’s touch. Crowley kissed Aziraphale, and some part of him still marveled. He marveled that he could fill his angel’s every desire, now. And Aziraphale basked in the love of the room, in the certain and utter comfort of being known and loved anyway.

When they were spent, they slumped together, breathing because it felt nice. Then, without having to speak on it, they released their wings, and enshrouded each other in feathers.

Aziraphale giggled, a feather from Crowley’s wing tickling his bare stomach. Crowley laughed too, adjusting until they were comfortable.

“We should send a message to Anathema.” Aziraphale said, after a few minutes.

“Naw.” Crowley yawned. “She’ll know. In the morning, she’ll know.”

“Okay.” Aziraphale snuggled close. “I’ll be seeing you soon, dear, won’t I?”

Crowley thought. He wasn’t feeling scared anymore, he realized. “Yeah, Aziraphale, I think you will.”

“Well that’s alright then.” He kissed Crowley, once more on the mouth. “Goodnight, dearest.”

“Goodnight angel.”

X

Anathema _did_ know, in the morning. She allowed herself to cry just a little, before gritting her teeth and reassuring herself. She had grown close to the angel and demon over the past few decades - they all had. Everyone that had been involved in the apocalypse that didn’t happen.

She’d been there at their wedding, and now she would be there at their funeral.

X

**Five Years Later**

Antonia.

That was her name. Well, kind of. That was what her parents called her, but she knew her real name was Crowley. She didn’t know _much_ more than that, at the moment, as she was ‘only’ five years old.

(The rest of the knowledge sat to the side, patiently waiting and ready for when Crowley was able to ask the right questions, and receive the right answers).

But even with just that, her name, she knew she was different, and her parents did too. They weren’t the religious types, _thank someone,_ and watched her irregularities with curiosity, and just a little bit of concern.

They let her dress in black, and cut her red hair short, and wear sunglasses everywhere with very little protest. They struggled to call her Crowley, but she didn’t really mind. And told them so. Antonia wasn’t that different from Anthony, and she had chosen that name for herself, before.

(Oh yes, she had, hadn’t she? She had chosen both her names.)

“I used to be called _Crawley.”_ She told her mother, a fair-skinned woman named Beatrice. Crowley’s father called her Bea. “And even before that I was named _Gadreel._ But Gadreel was taken away, and I didn’t much like it anyway, and then I was named _Crawley,_ and I didn’t like it either, so I renamed myself _Crowley._ ”

“That’s quite a lot of names.” Bea remarked, looking to her husband. His name was Trevor, and he had nice brown skin and fluffy hair. Trevor shrugged helplessly, and Crowley ignored them both.

“Then I needed another name, because humans usually ask for two, so I decided Antony. Which was basically Anthony, which is really like Antonia, when you think about it.” She held out her arms, story over, and her father picked her up.

Amazingly, Crowley’s parents came to the correct conclusion long before their daughter did.

“ _Reincarnation?”_ Bea hissed at Trevor, sometime around when Crowley turned six and she began speaking in dead languages to get away with cursing whenever she wanted. Bea wanted to say that it was ridiculous, but it wasn’t and they both knew that it wasn’t.

(Only last week they had met up with Bea’s mother for tea, and the older woman had said _“Why Antonia, just look at how big you’re getting! How old are you now, pumpkin?”_ And Crowley had turned to her grandmother, looking quite serious despite the sunglasses that were just a bit too big sliding down her face, and said _“Just about 6,050 by now I think. Give or take a decade.”_ Bea’s mother had laughed, delighted by her granddaughter’s quirky answer, but Bea had not laughed. Instead, she had thought about her daughter’s last birthday, and how there had only been six candles on the cake, and what a horrible, embarrassing mistake for a mother to make that was!)

A week before Crowley began her first year in primary, her father showed her how to walk to and from school. It was a 20 minute walk in both directions, and they lived in such a quiet English village, Trevor was confident she would be fine. They passed by a park on the way there, and Crowley eyed it with interest, but didn’t pester her father to stop and play. He was expecting it on the way back, though.

They made it to the school, and Crowley looked down her nose at it.

“Are you _quite sure_ I have to go to school dad? I already know how to read.”

“Yes, sweetheart.” He replied, familiar with where the argument was heading.

“And I can do addition and subtraction, and I know my multiplication tables, and I can do long division okay…”

“You need to make friends your own age,” Trevor replied, as was the next step in this argument. Crowley was brilliant, and was probably the reincarnation of some Mesopotamian royal or something, but she had struggled with making friends with other children. She seemed to intimidate them.

“I _told_ you, it’s fine. I have a best friend, you know.”

Trevor nodded, familiar with this as well. His daughter claimed to have a best friend she had yet to meet, but was quite sure she would. He and Bea had discussed the possibility of an imaginary friend, but had decided it was probably just their daughter’s optimistic nature shining through.

“And,” Crowley continued, “And, and, huh. There he is.”

It took Trevor a moment to process the change in the script. He stopped walking, peering behind at his daughter. They had stopped back in front of the park, and for a moment Trevor thought that she wanted to go play. Then he followed her gaze, spying a child around her age sitting at the base of the slide, nose buried in a book.

“There’s,” Trevor began.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley shrieked, and darted forward. Trevor followed on instinct.

X

“Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale looked up from the library’s tattered copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ , and was on his feet in less than a second. Crowley, looking to be about his age (and thank _someone_ for that) was barrelling towards him at full tilt.

“There you are!” She shouted, and Aziraphale couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but grin and run to meet her. That turned out to be a mistake, as they collided with about all the finesse expected of six year olds. Still there was a hug in there, and when Azirapahle could finally find his voice, he was embracing Crowley and her hair was tickling his nose.

“Good morning Crowley.” He said.

“Good morning, angel. Miss me?”

X

After a bit of confusion on their parent’s side, Trevor invited Aziraphale’s dads (named Ben and Martin) over to dinner. The four adults spoke in relief to one another well into the night, while Crowley and Aziraphale shrieked and ran around the house, playing some game involving knights.

(“I am Aziraphale of the round table!” Aziraphale said, a wrapping paper tube stuck into a belt loop. “I would like to speak to the black knight.”

“Here I am!” Crowley said, wrapping tube in hand. “You have sought the black knight, foolish angel, but you have met your doom.” They both fell over laughing.)

(“We were so confused!” Ben said, and his husband nodded sagely. “I remember I was reading to Ez-ah, Aziraphale one night and he just plucked the book right out of my hands and read it back! In the Queen’s english! He was barely 3!”

“That’s nothing,” Bea said, nearly boasting. “Crowley went through a phrase when she was two where she spoke french in her sleep!”)

X

It all turned out okay. Crowley and Aziraphale spent the next ten years living a childhood they’d never had, and receiving the kind of unconditional (if a bit confused) love that they had only ever witnessed between human parents and their children.

When Crowley turned ten, he made two changes. The first, he stood on his chair during one of their families’ weekly dinners and announced that he was a boy now. He might be a girl again later, he said, and would let them know. The second, he turned into a snake. That made Aziraphale laugh, though none of the adults were as pleased. They got used to it, though.

When their shared 18th birthday came around, their parents threw them a small party and a pretty older woman showed up with a priceless black car and boxes of equally priceless books.

“I knew them before.” Anathema explained to their parents, while eyeing the two teenagers up and down. Humanity - or whatever it was that had taken hold - looked good on them. They looked relaxed, comfortable, and happy. Whatever was left of hell’s and heaven’s influence had been washed away with the rebirth. Crowley’s eyes were a pale brown and human, though even as she looked they suddenly went gold and snake-y, surely just to startle her. She glared at him.

“Thanks _Anathema._ ” He said, snatching the Bentley’s keys from her hands.

“Ungrateful brat.” She knuckled down his long red hair, mussing it up. The former-demon turned teenage-menace ran off, and Aziraphale replaced him, taking Anathema’s hand and patting it the way he used to, when he had looked as if he could have been her grandparent, rather than the other way around.

“I expect you two will be returning the favor for me, eventually” She told the ex-angel.

He looked startled, but nodded slowly, knowing better than to question the witch. The witch, who had woken up last year to A Change. She had cursed for a minute and then felt quite pleased about it.

“It will be a while though.” She said. “Adam sends his regards. So do Newt, and the rest of The Them.”

Crowley’s and Aziraphale’s parents took Anathema in stride (nothing phased them anymore) and she was invited to the weekly dinners from then on.

X

That same night, Crowley and Aziraphale made the conscious effort to Remember. They had remembered a lot of things, picking up little answers to little questions throughout their childhood.

(Why do I know how to read? Oh yes, that monk in the 13th century taught me english script. Why doesn’t mum miracle the dishes clean? Oh, right. Humans can’t do miracles usually. I should help her *snap*. And so on and so forth).

But now they remembered it all. It didn’t change much. They were a former angel and a former demon who were now human-ish (Kind of? Maybe?) and they were best friends and loved each other and had 6,000 or so years of memories among humans.

They sat on the roof of Crowley’s house, and unfurled their wings.

“Still got it.” Crowley grinned, and then frowned. He hadn’t groomed his wings in almost 18 years. He got to work immediately.

Aziraphale watched his hus- oh, wait no, they weren’t married. Or were they? He frowned. They should probably get married again, just to be on the safe side. He said as much.

“Do you think we’ll have to get married every time?” Crowley asked, hunched over his primaries.

“Every time we’re reborn? Maybe. I don’t think I’ll get tired of it though.”

“Yeah, me neither.” Crowley considered, and barely spared a thought to how sappy that was. It turned out that even when you’d known someone since the beginning of official time, there was something different to be gained from growing up together. “Though,” Crowley continued, “going through _puberty?_ Ugh. I don’t want to do _that_ every hundred years. Or _teething?_ Name one thing worse than teething angel, one thing.”

“You don’t remember teething,” Azirapahle accused. “Our human brains weren’t fully developed enough to retain memories then. I think.” He shuffled his wings, his gums suddenly feeling a bit sore. “Well I had a thought on the puberty bit, at least,” said Aziraphale, “we probably could miracle the, erm, side effects away. Right?”

Crowley dropped his wing.

“Maybe not all of them, of course, but our magic seems to be about the same as it was, so really I figure if we wanted we could sort of…” he made a vague whooshing gesture into the air. “Look the way we once did? Can’t be that much different than body modding really. Though people would catch on if we did too much too fast.”

Crowley groaned, loud and theatrical. “Why didn’t I think of that?” He groused. “My voice squeaked for weeks! It was so embarrassing! … Wait.” He turned a narrow-eyed gaze to Aziraphale. “Your voice never squeaked.”

“Ah, yes, well. It only occurred to me, um, later. You were a bit faster than me to develop, if you recall.”

“You _cheater!_ ”

X

The next morning, Crowley met Aziraphale at his house, the trunk of the Bentley already stuffed full of his things. It would still fit whatever Aziraphale was bringing though, of course.

They were going to London. Aziraphale had a bookshop to re-open, and Crowley was starting classes at University. He was thinking about a degree in city-planning, or something equally as devious.

Crowley slunk out of the driver’s seat as Aziraphale ran out of the house, a suitcase in hand.

“You know I was thinking about what you said last night,” Crowley said, in lieu of a greeting. “The whole,” He lowered his voice into a mocking tone and made air quotes “‘rebirth’ thing probably doesn’t need to happen every 100 years either. Now that we _know_ what’s going on we can probably extend our lives a bit.”

“Oh, yes. Probably.” Aziraphale wiped sweat off his brow, looking very cute in a blue jumper, Crowley thought. “Will you help me with the rest, dear?”

“‘Course, angel.”

“I keep telling you I’m not really an angel anymore Crowley.”

“And _I_ keep telling _you_ it’s not literal. Anymore. It’s a pet name.” He sniffed. “Though if you’re not an angel, then what are you?”

They both paused, suddenly, at the doorway.

Aziraphale’s eyebrows scrunched together, and he nearly looked affronted. “I am a Guardian of course, and so are you.”

“A Guardian Spirit?” Crowley tested the way it sounded in his mouth. “Seems a bit pagan, doesn’t it? A bit blasphemous.”

“Let’s not complicate things,” Aziraphale said primly. “Calling ourselves Guardians doesn’t have to mean anything more than that.” He opened the door and Crowley followed him inside.

“You can be a Guardian if you want, but I know what I am and that’s a _menace_.”

“Can’t argue with you there.”

They finished packing the Bentley, squabbling pleasantly all the while, and when they left Aziraphale’s dads pushed a cooler of sandwiches and juice and other delicious things at them, and kissed them both goodbye, also managing to wrangle promises of showing up for the occasional weekly dinner.

(Crowley had promised the same to his parents, so they would be visiting quite a bit.)

Finally, finally they managed to wrangle themselves free of Aziraphale’s parental units, and they were on their way to London.

“Oh, I am _so_ excited, Crowley! 20 years is a long time to close the bookshop, and I’m sure people were beginning to get worried.”

Crowley refrained from rolling his eyes, though just barely.

“And you! Going to University! Dear I am so proud of you, have I mentioned that?”

“ _Yes_ , angel, a billion times. I wish you wouldn’t make a big deal of it.” The thing was Crowley was having trouble deciding if going to Uni was, indeed, cool or not. The uncertainty made him nervous. Though it was definitely cooler than lounging around the bookshop all day, so that made him feel a bit better.

“It’s going to be so fun! You know you’ve inspired me, I think I’ll have to start taking some classes once the bookshop is all settled in.”

“In what, fifty years?” Crowley teased.

Aziraphale didn’t rise to the bait. “We’re going to fit in so well! Oh, this is going to make doing all the regular Guardian-business so much easier don’t you think? We have a birthday now! With a real year and everything!”

“Yeah, I know angel, our birthday was yesterday.”

Aziraphale continued nattering on, his youthful face (and it was so young - Crowley still found himself surprised sometimes) practically glowing with excitement. 18 years and one day ago, he had sat with Aziraphale, looking much older than he did now, on a beach along the coast of England. They had been scared. Scared that they were turning human, scared that Azrael was going to swoop in and pluck them away to heaven or hell, and scared that the end was going to be a more permanent thing. Only a sort of - comfort - a certainty that things were going to be okay had kept them going, and now things were better than ever.

Sure, they may have to deal with being reborn every (few) hundred years, but it was a kind of break wasn’t it? Being a kid was _fun._ And even if their future childhoods weren’t as nice as this first one had been, they didn’t have to worry about heaven or hell if they came knocking. They didn’t have to worry about hell fire or holy water either. (Aziraphale had been _furious_ with him for testing that little hypothesis). Crowley rolled down his window and listened, smiling softly while Aziraphale talked about that little chocolatier in London he hadn’t been to in _ages,_ Crowley, _ages._

It didn’t burn much more than his ego to think that this must have been Her plan all along, Her gift, and for him to be grateful for it.

“And of course,” Aziraphale said, “I told you what Anathema told me yesterday, which means that humans can be reborn too! Imagine that! And I am so happy, dearest, because I was really thinking that I would miss her. Well, all of them really. It was so hard when dear Shadwell and Tracy passed.”

“Might need to keep an eye out for that Tracy woman.” Crowley remarked suddenly, “she had a fair bit of magic too.”

“Oh! Do you _really think so?_ ”

Crowley shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Can you imagine Crowley? Humans choosing to be reborn, starting up with the knowledge they gained in their past life already there? I can’t even - I can’t even begin to think about how wonderful that will be!”

“And who knows?” Crowley shrugged. “Maybe more angels and demons will become like us one day.”

Aziraphale sighed happily, and they both fell into a silence, imagining it.

“We’ll just have to see.” Aziraphale said a little while later, taking Crowley’s hand.

“Guess we will. Got the time for it, anyway.”

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why I wrote this. These aren't even my headcanons. They're not anyone's headcanons. But, I did spend all morning working on it for some reason so here, please take it off my hands.


End file.
